John Bell, as was his custom, stopped at the Mustang Saloon for a drink before taking that long ride back to the Five Fingers. He came in out of the hot sun, limping through the bat-wing doors, only to find that more than half of the Mustang’s customers were hands from the Double C. It was easy to tell. They were the ones with coins jingling in their pockets. An honest cow-puncher couldn’t afford getting drunk as often as the Double C riders did.
John couldn’t help but think of the change in the Double C—and with it, the valley—since Howard Cliffords died. It was a change that could only be measured by the gulf between what is best in man and what is a good deal less than best. Howard originally owned the entire valley, but had opened it up to people looking for a fresh start. Cliffords made money, but on the whole, he had been generous and helpful to the poorest of the poor, who saw in his valley a chance to build a future. Now Howard was gone, and his kid brother, William, was running the Double C. William Cliffords was nothing like his older brother ...
A tumbler of rye awaited John at the bar as he said hello to the few friendly faces he could find scattered among the new, rough-looking Cliffords bunch.
He put his lame leg up on the bar-rail, took off his hat, and wiped his brow. There was a strange tension in the air. It made him uneasy. A man gets a sense for trouble living in a rough country, and John had felt it when he walked in the door. The looks on the faces of his friends deepened that feeling. And the voice that bellowed, “John Bell, I hear you used to be real good with a gun before you got yourself crippled!” confirmed his worst fears.
He motioned to the bartender for another drink. Usually he had only one, but he didn’t want to turn around. “No trouble,” he promised himself. It was a difficult promise to keep.
A large, meaty hand grabbed him by the shoulder and pushed him away from the bar. He half-stumbled as he tried to place his left leg firmly on the saloon floor. As he spun around, he caught sight of William Cliffords smiling wickedly in the doorway of the Mustang Saloon.
John Bell heard that same bellowing voice say something about his courage, but he didn’t listen. He was concentrating on finding a way out of this. The loudmouth bucking for a fight was a stranger. Maybe John could beat him at slapping leather and maybe he couldn’t. He didn’t want to find out.
What troubled him most was that he didn’t know why he was being goaded into a fight—at least he didn’t know until he caught the eye of a neighbor who had a small ranch across the valley. That man was looking up to him, hoping he had the sand in his gut and the speed in his hands to stop whatever William Cliffords might be planning.
John Bell was a modest man. It wasn’t until that hopeful look from his friend that he realized he was the closest thing to a gunfighter the small ranchers had. Get rid of him and start harassing these peaceful folks and that most would get the fear in them and they would leave.
William Cliffords, with all the money, land, and cattle his brother, Howard, left him, was trying to grab for more. And John Bell was the first obstacle. Yes, John was the closest thing to a gunfighter the small ranchers had, and he wasn’t much. Twelve years ago, before his leg was blasted out of shape, he would have had a better than even chance. Now, he wasn’t so sure. He just stood there and listened to his name being cursed and didn’t move. “I won’t fight. I won’t,” he repeated to himself, trying to close his mind to the epithets being hurled his way.
Then he heard his wife’s name come slithering out of the foul-minded cowboy’s mouth. John never had a chance. He was provoked, yet, was the second of the two to get his gun clear of leather. A bullet ripped into his throat. His eyes bulged out in a stare that saw nothing as blood gushed out of his neck and life poured out of his body. John Bell toppled over and was dead when he hit the floor.
When a man is killed before a large gathering of people, somehow, despite the wide open spaces of the west—the deserts, mountains, and Indian country—despite all this and more, somehow, the news travels. Maybe a disillusioned ranch-hand, a fearful drummer, or just a wanderer had been in the Mustang Saloon that day and saw the incident for what it was: murder.
So this fellow, sick with the sight of greed or scared at the sight for a man acting worse than an animal, makes a point of drifting. Maybe the next stop is a mining town or a boomtown with the railroad coming through. This drifter, with the evil he’s seen still in his mind’s eye, tells the dirty tale. Those he tells it to, tell it to others. Some of these folks go to other mining towns, boomtowns, or cow towns and repeat the story.
“There was a lame cowboy,” they’d say, “who didn’t fight no matter what dirt-eating names were shoved into his craw by a hired gun ... until the paid killer bad-mouthed the cripple’s wife. And then the poor bastard was shot down.”
And so the story would spread. From Wyoming to the Dakotas to Texas ... to everyplace men get their backs up when an honest man dies for no good reason. And maybe, just maybe, a drifter, who heard the story from a bartender, who heard it from a drummer, who heard it from a railroad man, will repeat what he’s heard to a man who makes a difference.